


Another Round

by disapparater



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drinking & Talking, Drinking Games, Heavy Drinking, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-06
Updated: 2015-03-06
Packaged: 2018-03-16 15:38:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3493709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disapparater/pseuds/disapparater
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Instead of the night he expects, Draco gets drinks, crisps, games and Potter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Another Round

**Author's Note:**

  * For [raitala](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raitala/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Harry and Draco Meet for Cocktails 1](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/101549) by raitala. 
  * Inspired by [Harry and Draco Meet for Cocktails 2](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/101555) by raitala. 



> Writing this for you, [](http://raitala.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://raitala.livejournal.com/)**raitala** , was so much fun. I had a difficult time picking a piece to remix, because all of your art is not only beautiful, but so full of possibilities! I settled on Harry and Draco Meet for Cocktails because I wanted to explore why they were meeting for cocktails in the first place, and also what on earth happened to get them from the first image to the second. I knew whatever it was, it was going to be a joy to write about, and I wasn't wrong. 
> 
> Many thanks to my two betas, whose laughter was even more reassuring than all those pesky typos they caught ♥

**Drink One.**

He's been stood up. Draco knows this because it's now five past seven, and Pansy is never late. She's on time, or, more often, early, having already drunk a vodka or fifteen.

After he arrived 10 minutes ago, Draco ordered a martini and has been sipping it, sitting at their usual table. Pansy said seven, and although she's never late, other people are not as predictable with their time keeping; _someone_ else should be here by now. Draco surveys the bar through narrowed eyes, trying to figure out what Pansy's up to. He loosens his tie slightly before taking another sip of his drink through pursed lips when he doesn't spot anything obviously amiss.

It's when Draco's looking into his glass, considering his olive, that a shadow falls over him. As Draco looks up, the reason for Pansy's absence becomes clear.

Into the seat opposite him drops Potter, a glass in hand. Draco is suddenly tempted to tighten his tie, lest Potter see him as anything other than well put together. He resists, instead offering an upturn of his lips and lifting his glass slightly in acknowledgement. Of what, Potter can take his pick: his presence, their predicament, Pansy's ploy, all of the above. Potter returns the gesture with a small, wry smile, and it's clear what they are silently toasting.

Potter lowers his glass. “So... Pansy?”

“Pansy.” Draco pauses. “Pansy?”

“Pansy.” Potter nods. “Well, Ron, but yeah, Pansy.”

They pause, both quietly taking a sip of their drinks.

“Neither of us seems surprised we've been manipulated into this situation,” says Draco, “but I'm not sure on Pansy's motives for it.”

“Ditto. I was kind of expecting something like this, but I don't know what we're supposed to be getting out of it.” Potter lifts his drink to his lips and they lapse into silence.

Draco holds his glass by the stem and twists it. He may not hate Potter any more, but a lack of hate and sharing a drink are worlds apart, and apparently make for one hell of an awkward time.

“It has to be something wedding related,” Potter points out.

“But there's nothing we'd need to work on together. Our biggest role is organising the hen and stag parties.” Draco pauses, considering. “And not getting so drunk we can't stand up next to our best friends while they exchange vows.”

Potter's eyes veer to the side, a clear look of thoughtfulness on his face. “What about rings?” he says after a few seconds.

Draco shakes his head. “Pansy won't give them to us until the morning of the wedding—I guarantee it.” He won't say it so blatantly to Potter, but Pansy has control issues. “And besides, what would we talk about? Whether we're going to hand them over using the classic flat palm or go for a flourish?”

Potter's wide eyes make it seem like he's actually worried about his ring-bearing capabilities. “ _Are_ you going for a flourish?”

“And risk taking even a fraction of attention away from Pansy? No, I'm flat palming it.” Draco's words seem to mollify Potter.

“The wedding's only two weeks away.” A crease appears in his forehead as he looks across the table at Draco. “Whatever she wants from us, I'm kind of surprised she's left it this long.”

“I'm surprised it's so far ahead of the wedding.” Draco looks down at his drink and rescues the olive he's been eyeing since before Potter's arrival. “I thought at the last minute she'd try and guilt trip us into trying to get along or ask us to simply avoid each other.” The olive meets its death between Draco's teeth, before he drops the cocktail stick on the table.

“As the best men, can we really just avoid each other?” Potter sounds almost glum.

“We've been doing it so far.” Draco is careful to sound casual.

The crease deepens on Potter's forehead. “I haven't been avoiding you.”

“Well, I haven't been avoiding you either.” The urge to sit a little straighter and hold his shoulders a little higher is strong, but Draco resists. His mind is whirling.

“Well, good.” Potter, his shoulders squaring, doesn't bother resisting.

It's Draco's turn to frown. “Why have we barely spoken to each other in the time our friends have been together?”

Potter gives a small one-shouldered shrug. “Our two groups of friends don't hang out with each other that often.”

Draco raises an eyebrow. “Often enough that we have a regular pub—a regular table.”

“Often enough that Neville and Theo have become best friends,” concedes Potter, with a cock of his head to the left.

“Have we just... naturally not talked?” Draco ponders aloud. “Has it been coincidence and circumstance or...?”

“It has to be coincidence.” Potter sounds decisive, but the small shake of his head betrays him.

“For two years?” Draco pushes.

Potter seems markedly less sure. He purses his lips before saying, “Why would they do that?” He's on Draco's wavelength, now. “Keep us apart on purpose? I understand they'd think it difficult or awkward—orchestrating this meeting proves that—but do they really think we'd cause a scene? That we'd, what, shout and hex each other?”

A small sigh slips from Draco. “I'd like to think, if I can get along well enough with Ron—well enough to call him Ron—that it would be apparent that I'm capable of getting along well enough with you.”

“Well enough to call me Harry?” The slightly hopeful lilt of Potter's voice lifts one corner of Draco's lips.

“Don't push it, Potter.”

Potter gives a small laugh and looks away before taking a large swig of his drink. “Well, they've made it clear they want us to interact tonight, and if they thought there would be arguing and spells flying, then it would seem they were mistaken.”

Lifting his martini, Draco drains the glass. “There's still time—we've only had one drink.”

 

**Drink Two.**

Placing the requested beer in front of Potter, Draco slides back into his seat, fresh martini in hand.

After a long pull on his drink, Potter casually asks, “So, what are you planning for Pansy's hen do?”

Apparently they're going to try this talking and getting along thing. Draco supposes Pansy will never let him hear the end of it if he decides not to bother, and really, he's not had the urge to hex Potter for a very long time. The least they can do is see if they can stand one another's company.

Still, there's no way Draco's taking that bait. He gives a firm shake of his head. “I refuse to reveal if there will or will not be strippers.”

Potter's eyes go wide in what Draco suspects is genuine shock. “That's not what I meant.”

Despite Potter's reaction, Draco is sceptical. “Regardless, if I told you, you'd tell Ron. If I confirm, he'll be jealous and likely want strippers of his own.” Draco pauses to take a sip of his drink. Potter it seems, is actually stunned enough to wait for Draco to finish his explanation. “If I refute, he'll think he's safe, and likely still want strippers of his own.” Now Draco grins across at Potter, who is fiddling with his half-empty pint glass. “And besides, I'd rather leave him unsure—much more fun.”

“Ron's not having strippers,” Potter all but blurts. Draco raises an enquiring eyebrow. “I'm organising his stag do, and there will be no strippers.”

Internally, Draco can admit he's somewhat surprised. Externally, he executes his second olive of the evening and gestures with the bare cocktail stick for Potter to continue.

“As much as the night is for Ron and he's my best mate...” Potter grasps his pint firmly before continuing. “I'm more afraid of Pansy and Mrs Weasley than I am of Ron's unhappiness.”

Potter lifts his drink to his mouth as a hearty laugh escapes Draco's throat.

 

**Drink Three.**

When Potter returns from the bar with another round, Draco figures he should take a stab at initiating conversation. As Pansy and Ron are the reason they're here, it seems the couple are a safe topic. Of course, 'safe' is a relative term.

“So, what was your reaction when Pansy and Ron started dating? Did you try to talk Ron out of it?”

Potter immediately shakes his head. “Oh no, I won't touch that one. I'm not telling you anything.”

“That just means there's something _to_ tell.” Draco puts his elbows on the table and props his chin in his hands.

“Yes, there is,” Potter admits. “Whether or not I tried to talk Ron out of it, but I'm not going to tell you.”

“Spoilsport.” Draco drops his hands and lifts his glass. He waits for Potter to take a drink before he continues. “I tried to talk Pansy out of it, of course.”

Potter splutters and coughs as he swiftly tries to swallow. “What do you mean, 'of course'?”

“Don't act insulted—it was Ronald Weasley, what would you have expected me to do?” Draco sips from his glass.

Potter all but harrumphs and folds his arms across his chest.

“Pansy wouldn't hear me, though,” continues Draco. “At the time it was just sex for her, anyway. At least that's what she told me.”

“Is that what you Slytherins are like?” asks Potter, unfolding his arms, but still looking sour. “'Just sex'?”

“Obviously not—Pansy's marrying him, remember?”

“Maybe the sex is just that good,” suggests Potter. He speaks lightly—too lightly—and Draco wonders why Potter is so bothered.

“No doubt it is.” And Draco has no doubts—Pansy has always been generous with details, unfortunately.

Potter pulls a face. “We can stop talking about our best friends' sex life, now.”

“You're the one who brought up its likely quality.” Draco can't help but note how queasy Potter is starting to look. “My point is, good sex can be found anywhere. Someone worth marrying, worth shagging and sharing your life with forever, is something rarer. And Slytherins, just like everyone else, are looking for it.”

Finally, Potter's annoyance seems to melt. He relaxes and picks up his drink. “Even you?” The hopeful lilt is back in Potter's voice, and Draco supposes if he can admit this to Potter, Potter will finally believe Pansy wants more from her fiancé that his cock.

“Even me.”

Potter's broad smile is a little disconcerting, but Draco supposes bringing about Potter's faith in Pansy's designs on his best friend is worth it. Still, he takes a large gulp of his drink when Potter's smile decides to hang around.

 

**Drink Four.**

Draco is feeling the slightest bit unbalanced as he carries another round of drinks back to their table. The way Potter snatches up his drink to take a gulp tells Draco... nothing, actually, Potter's been guzzling his drinks all night. Anyone would think he was nervous or something. Draco wonders if he should ask Potter if he's okay, but he's not sure they're close or drunk enough for that kind of thing yet.

Instead, Draco flaps out the back of his jacket and takes his seat with as much tipsy grace as he can muster.

“I was going to commiserate on the clothes we've got to wear for the wedding, but...” As Potter speaks he pointedly eyes Draco's outfit.

“What?” Draco quickly looks down at himself. He knows he's a little tipsy, but surely he's not drunk enough to have spilt something on his shirt.

“You're wearing a suit,” says Potter, as though neither of them had noticed before now. “A Muggle suit, at that.”

“Yes?”

“Voluntarily.”

“This is a Muggle pub, Potter.” Draco doesn't understand what Potter's getting at.

“Yeah, but, a suit?” Potter scrunches up his face, and Draco hates the way that that disapproval seeps into his consciousness.

“Pfft, it's called taste.” Draco doesn't care what Potter thinks. Despite this, Draco loosens his tie and removes the loop from around his head before placing it in his pocket. “Does that help ease your slobbish sensibilities?”

“Yes. You look much better.” Potter's eyes wander from Draco's now-naked shirt buttons up over his face and to his hair. The small upturn of Potter's lips feels far too fond, and Draco panics.

Nervously, he raises his hands to his hair and feels it sticking out in all sorts of directions. He hadn't thought a tie could do so much damage. “Damn it,” he curses under his breath and attempts to flattens his hair with his palms.

At this, Harry lets loose a laugh. “Don't,” he manages between his breaths of laughter.

Draco gives up and lowers his hands. Instead, he stares hard at Potter through narrowed eyes as he finishes his martini and dramatically bites down on his olive.

It only makes Potter laugh harder.

 

**Drink Five.**

After buying what Draco is pretty sure is the fourth round of the evening, he wanders off to the toilet. An empty bladder makes him feel at least one fifth more sober, and he is more confident in his balancing abilities on his way back to their table.

What Draco is less confident on is his Potter-sitting abilities, as he seems to have lost the plonker—their table, other than the two drinks and array of empty glasses, is empty. Finding his martini much more appealing than forming a one-man search party, Draco shrugs and sits down.

The search party would have been a waste, because Potter appears only a minute or two later. He ambles up to their table at a sedate pace, encumbered as he is with his arms full.

“What the fuck?” says Draco as Potter allows his collection of crisps and nuts packets to tumble on to the tabletop.

“I didn't know what flavour you liked, so...”

“So you bought out the bar? Bloody hell, you could've just asked.”

Draco hears Potter mumble something about there still being plenty of dry roasted peanuts as he slips into his seat.

“I didn't think about it until I got to the bar,” explains Potter. “Besides, you weren't here to ask.” As he speaks he looks down at his hands, which are fiddling with a packet of prawn cocktail Walkers.

For some reason, Potter's embarrassment makes Draco uneasy. He feels the need to _do_ something; reassure him in some way.

“Well, I am hungry. I suppose if we're going to continue on our intoxication trip, we should line our stomachs.” Really, Draco never bothers with more than his olives (that's what they're there for, right?), but he hasn't technically lied—they probably _should_ eat something starchy, even if Draco never normally does.

Draco spots a bright green bag amongst the pile and reaches for it. Apparently Potter spots it too, because now Draco has a bag of crisps in his palm, and a palm over the back of his hand.

It lasts only a split second, however, because then Potter is snatching his hand back as though it's burnt. Draco withdraws his own hand at a more reasonable speed, leaving the bag of crisps behind.

“Sorry,” says Draco.

“It's fine—I'm sorry.”

Neither of them reaches for another bag.

“You like salt and vinegar, then?” Potter asks, unnecessarily. “They're my favourite.” And then, instead of saying something sensible, like how he'll go buy another packet, Potter says, “Let's share. That's what friends at the pub do, right?”

Timidly, Potter reaches for the green bag again, this time picking it up unhindered. He opens the packet at the top, ripping down the side and along the bottom, opening the bag out so it lies flat, with the crisps spread out on top.

Draco's stomach gives a quiet growl at the sight. Realising he is hungry, Draco shrugs and reaches for a crisp. So does Potter.

 

**Drink Six.**

How Draco has found himself here, he does not know. If he thought he wasn't tipsy enough to have spilt something on himself before, he knows after this he will be. It's time to take precautions. He slips off his suit jacket, folding it in half and placing it an arm's length away. A resigned sigh escapes him as he looks down at his shirt—he can't take that off.

“Ready?” Potter sounds impatiently amused. Also drunk.

After picking up the salt, Draco counts them down. “Three, two, one—”

Immediately they both lick the back of their hands and reach for their shot glasses. Draco throws his head back and the burning he feels in his throat forces him to close his eyes. They open again in an instant as Draco looks down at the table and reaches for the lime.

Draco hates tequila.

“Bleugh,” is Potter's post-shot deceleration of choice. Draco looks over at him in time to see Potter's shoulders shudder with disgust. “Whose fucking stupid idea was that?”

“Yours.” Draco's voice is laced with drunken merriment.

Drunken, unbelieving narrowed eyes stare at Draco from across the table.

Draco huffs. “You accused my cocktails of being too tame and ran off to order shots.”

Potter's suspicion melts into genuine confusion. “I did?”

“Well, if I'm honest it was more like a skip than a run...” When Potter doesn't laugh, Draco shakes his head. “Potter, your drunken short term memory is scarily terrible. I could completely make something up and you would never know. In fact, we didn't even have shots. What are you talking about, Potter?”

Picking up his empty shot glass, Potter stares into its shallow and empty depths. “I might not remember this night at all by the morning, so I guess it's irrelevant either way.” He places the shot glass back on the table and slides it forcefully away from himself.

As palpable as Potter's mood is, Draco still tries to keep things light. “You seem upset about that for some reason. Granted, it would put Pansy's scheming to pot if neither of us remembered tonight, but I would be more than fine about that.”

“I don't want to forget.” Potter sounds upset, but somehow more genuine.

“You don't want to forget a terrible shot that made you splutter and curse?”

“I don't want to forget a terrible shot I shared with _you_.” Now Potter's rolling his eyes, as if forgetting that the bonding they're experiencing is what has been bothering him the whole time. As if Draco should have known that.

“It's novel, I'll concede.” And as much as he's trying to make Potter laugh, this time Draco's also not joking. “I'll be the one to suggest it to you at the wedding reception, to help jog your memory.”

Finally, Draco gets what he wants from Potter. A smile.

 

**Drink Seven.**

If Potter thinks Draco's martinis are tame and is going to make him partake in stupid drinking games, fine. Draco prepares himself at the bar by rolling his shirt sleeves up to his elbows—he means business, this time.

On his return, Draco sits down and looks Potter in the eye before placing the brimming glasses on the table in front of them and raising a challenging eyebrow. Pint race it is.

Potter catches on easily and quickly shouts, “Go!”

They each snatch up their pint and Draco makes sure to splash plenty over the rim of his glass. When Draco means business, he means to cheat. The cold larger is refreshing after his dry martinis, and it slides down his throat easily. Draco only has to gulp six times before his glass is upturned and empty, then he's slamming it back down to the table.

_Bang. Bang._

The empty glasses that already litter the table give an ugly rattle as both Draco and Potter take a deep breath.

“I win!” declares Draco.

“Like hell,” counters Potter. “I finished first.”

Draco tries to be reasonable. “I heard the first bang as I saw my glass hit the table.”

“Ah,” Potter's eyes light up with drunken joy, “but light travels faster than sound—the sound you heard was from _my_ pint glass, which landed a split second _before_ we heard the first bang.”

This is dismissed with a casual wave of Draco's hand. “Fuck off with your Muggle science.” He keeps his voice light, and trusts Potter will know he's joking. Mostly.

“It's not Muggle science,” argues Potter. “It's just... fact.”

Draco may have grown up hating Muggles, but that doesn't make him ignorant of them. “Well, it's also a fact that the brain takes one tenth of a second to process what the eye sees. So my glass actually landed before I saw it, which means it was also before the first bang.”

Potter's eyes are narrowed and his head is tilted to the side. He looks like he's going to call drunken bullshit on Draco's fact. Instead, he smiles and shakes his head. “Fuck off with your mind games.”

“It's not mind games.” Draco smiles right back at Potter. “It's just Muggle science.”

“If that's true, then surely it must also take the brain time to process what the ear hears, which would put us back where we started.”

“I don't know the Muggle science on that one, and it would seem you're not confident, either. We can only draw conclusions from what we know to be true, which is that I won.”

Potter's smile turns indulgent. “You can talk your way out of anything, can't you?”

With a small nod, Draco not-so-modestly agrees. “It's my best trait.”

For a moment Potter just looks at Draco, his eyes open and earnest. Draco doesn't know quite what to do with himself. Then Potter lets out a small burst of laughter and stands, wobbling slightly on his drunken legs. He steps forward, toward the bar, but stops level with Draco. Before Draco realises what is happening, Potter has placed a hand on Draco's head and is ruffling his already messy hair. With a mischievous grin Potter removes his hand, and instead leans down to plant a kiss on top of Draco's head.

“Talk your way out of that.” Potter throws the words over his shoulder as he continues his unsteady walk to the bar.

 

**Drink Eight.**

By the time Potter returns with two more pints, Draco has pushed the drunken lips-on-his-head incident to the back of his mind. Potter was being a drunken fool. It didn't mean anything, and Draco's glad of that. Which is why he's been sitting here thinking of ways to make it happen again.

As soon as Potter's bum's in his seat, pint halfway to his mouth, Draco comes out with it.

“Truth or dare?” He figures they're both drunk enough for it, Potter especially, obviously. Potter's drink pauses in mid air. “What?”

“Truth or dare?” repeats Draco.

With a small shake of his head, Potter brings his drink to his mouth and takes a sip before replying. “We're not children.”

“No, we are fully grown adults, which makes you perfectly capable of processing my words, deciphering their meaning and answering the question.” Draco can feel himself becoming irrationally frustrated with Potter's lack of cooperation, and he tells himself it's got nothing to do with the memory of how Potter's lips felt against his hair. “So, truth or dare?”

“I'm a fully grown _drunken_ adult, so you shouldn't necessarily assume those things.”

A vision of Potter's wobbly gait flashes through Draco's mind and he concedes Potter's point with a tight nod.

“So...” Potter fiddles with a battered-looking coaster and seems to be fighting a smile. “Truth or dare?”

“Yooooou sod.”

Potter lets loose his smile while Draco plays for time by taking a long pull on his pint. It doesn't help, as Potter simply waits patiently.

Throwing caution to the wind—what's the worst that can happen?—Draco says, “Dare.”

“Karate chop this bag of crisps.” Potter unceremoniously shoves a packet of cheese and onion crisps towards him.

Draco is less than impressed. “ _Why?_ ” This isn't at all how he had imagined this game would go.

“Didn't I just tell you I'm drunk? Don't ask difficult questions like that. Because we still have plenty, because I wonder if the bag will pop, because it's the first thing that came out of my mouth, because why _not?_ ”

As Draco swiftly downs more of his beer, he focuses less on Potter's lips and more on his words. Somehow, Potter's ramblings start to make a drunken kind of sense.

“Fine.” Draco accepts the dare while visualising crisps flying everywhere—his drink, his lap, his hair. “But if I'm going to be doing karate...” His lets his words trail off as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his tie.

Potter watches him over the rim of his own drink as Draco slips the tie—conveniently still tied and forming a circle—around the top of his head. He pulls it tight and moves it around until the knot is at the back of his head, like a martial arts headband. Draco's sure his hair is ruffled to all hell again, if the endearing smile on Potter's face is anything to go by, and he's also sure he doesn't care.

Headgear in place, Draco shifts a little in his seat before lifting his right hand. He holds it out, ready to slash down with the side of his hand. At the last moment, he hesitates.

“Does it have to be cheese and onion?” He looks up at Potter. “It's going to stink if it does pop,” he reasons.

Potter gives a half-hearted roll of his eyes, but wordlessly replaces the bag with some ready salted crisps.

This time Draco lifts his hand more confidently. He lowers his hand slowly before pulling it back, then does it again two more times. It's partly to assure his drunken aim, but mostly to make Potter roll his eyes again.

At the last second, instead of landing the karate chop, Draco snatches up the pack of crisps. He opens them and rams a hand inside.

“I'd rather eat them, actually. Truth or dare?”

Potter stares at him in outright indignation, his mouth hanging open slightly. Draco continues to munch.

 

**Drink Nine.**

Deciding that truth or dare was not going to work, Draco quickly formulates another plan—game. Another game. Something silly and easy, with plenty of alcohol involved, but also something that can help them get to know each other, as they are supposed to be doing.

This is why Draco arrives back at their table with a small tray full of shot glasses. “We're shit at truth or dare,” he tells Potter, “but I have feeling we'll do better at truth or drink.”

“I pick drink,” is Potter's reply as he reaches out and picks up a shot.

Draco swiftly takes the drink from Potter and puts it back on the tray. “That's not how it works. We ask truths, and if you refuse to answer, you have to drink.”

“That still sounds easy enough. A drink is obviously better than answering embarrassing questions.”

“Not when that drink is a shot of jägermeister—” Draco is pleased to see an almost queasy look pass over Potter's face, “—and you keep going, as quickly as possible, until you _do_ answer a question.”

Potter is silent as he eyes the array of shot glasses with a grimace that indicates he is imagining the worst.

Eventually, Potter caves. “Fiiiine...” He lifts his gaze from the drinks and instead eyes Draco warily, awaiting the first question.

Not wanting to put Potter on the defensive too early, Draco instead decides to lull him into a false sense of security by starting easy. “Are you enjoying this unexpected boys' night out so far?”

An easy smile appears on Potter's lips and the, “Yes,” slips out easily.

Draco smiles back, finding himself genuinely relieved.

“Are you?”

“Yes—my go again.”

“No,” Potter says, only a little desperately, “that wasn't my question!”

“Yes it was,” Draco insists. “How many times have you felt like strangling me so far this evening?”

Potter laughs. “Only once or twice, not nearly as much as I thought I would. Why, how many times have you wanted to strangle me?”

“Ever? An impossibly large number. Tonight? Only a handful, and the urge has dulled right along with my sobriety.” Draco makes sure to give Potter a grin, so he knows they're only having a joke. “You can ask different questions, you know. Let's make it more interesting now. First crush?”

“Lisa Glover, the only girl in primary school who I ever remember smiling at me.” Potter looks melancholy, but only for a few seconds. Draco does not let a primary school crush on a girl dash his chances. “First kiss?” throws Potter

“Pansy,” replies Draco easily. “Fuck, don't tell Ron. We were six, it was terrible. Most embarrassing crush?”

“Cormac McLaggen—” Potter is speeding on before Draco even opens his mouth to speak. “Don't even go there; I was over it by sixth year.”

Draco says nothing, but allows Potter to assume his smile is because of his obvious embarrassment. In reality, it's because Draco is glad to have Potter's sexuality confirmed.

“Most embarrassing moment?” Potter's question pulls Draco back into the game.

“I think the word 'ferret' will suffice as an answer.” Draco is pleased to see Potter looking abashed, and decides it's time to ask the important question. “Current crush?”

As casual as Draco's voice is, Potter still sits in motionless silence. The moment drags on, and it becomes obvious Potter isn't going to answer.

“That bad, huh?” Draco offers a light-hearted out.

Potter looks up and meets Draco's eye. He holds it, Potter's face just as open as it had been before he'd laughed, ruffled Draco's hair and kissed his head. But this time, there is something else there, an awareness Potter didn't have before. With a blink of his eyes Draco suddenly realises Potter isn't half as drunk as he was before he brought the tray of jäger shots to the table.

Turning his attention to the drinks, Draco picks up a shot glass.

“Forget it, I'm sorry. Let's just drink, we've been so good at that.” Draco holds out his glass. “To our livers.”

Potter picks up a shot of his own, but doesn't stop watching Draco. “Our livers.”

 

**Drink Ten.**

Two more shot glasses land on the table as the flavour of licorice intensifies in Draco's mouth.

“I don't think I can drink any more.” Potter pushes his glass and the entire tray away from himself.

They've only had two shots each, which leaves four more on the tray. The thought of drinking them makes Draco's mouth want to clench shut in protest.

“Maybe we should go home,” offers Draco, ready to put pay to the night, kisses and all.

“Yeah, probably a good idea.”

Despite their words, neither of them move. They're far too drunk to Apparate, which means taxis, which means bother. Draco can't be bothered with bother.

“Remind me not to get this drunk at the wedding,” says Potter.

The wedding. Draco had almost forgotten about it. Maybe he could pick up his investigation into Potter's lips' feelings towards him then.

“You know it's traditional for the best man and maid of honour, or, in this case, the best men, to shag at the wedding?” Draco isn't sure why he says it. Other than because at this point, he does kind of want to.

“Traditional like cliché, or traditional like required?”

“Good point, I would hate to be cliché.”

“We could shag after the wedding. Or before, before is good.” Potter's voice is light, and almost sounds hopeful.

Draco leans back in his seat, pleased Potter is willing to play along. “I suppose I could manage that.”

Potter's face changes, no longer full of joy. “If it's going to be a hardship, let's not bother.” He seems genuinely upset.

At this point, Draco is confused and only capable of, “You seem genuinely upset.”

“Maybe I am,” says Potter, but his sudden casual air seems affected.

“We were joking.” Draco is pretty sure they were joking.

“ _You_ were joking.”

“You were serious?”

Potter leans forward, forward... until his head hits the tabletop. Draco hears muffled words that might be, “It doesn't matter.”

Draco frowns down at Potter, baffled. Unbidden, his inebriated mind starts putting things together in a way his sober mind might never have. Moments and meanings slip into place, until Draco can see the whole picture clearly.

With alarming certainty, Draco holds out both arms, pointing in Potter's general direction. “You like me!”

Potter utters more mumbles into the tabletop, but Draco doesn't stop to listen closely.

“It all makes sense now. The 'just sex', the hair-admiring, the not wanting to forget, the fucking _kiss_ and bloody _crush_.” Draco takes a deep breath before announcing it again. “You _like_ me.”

“I'd _like_ you to shut up.” Potter's words are clear as he lifts his head from the table. “This never would have happened if we hadn't sat here and got drunk. In fact, let's have another; hopefully we won't remember any of this in the morning.”

“Now you _want_ to forget?”

“Don't you?” Potter's voice is so earnest. “With the game—your questions—I thought you already knew, and wanted to embarrass me.”

“I didn't want to embarrass you, I just wasn't sure. And I don't want to forget that you like me. Quite the opposite, actually.” Draco decides his current happiness is not completely alcohol-fuelled. “I also want to remember that I've come to quite like you, too.”

“Like, or _like_?” Potter narrows his eyes, but there is the slightest hint of hope in his voice.

“Both, I think.”

They both pause and slowly, Draco sees a smile appear on Potter's face, just as he feels his own.

“So,” Draco continues as though they hadn't just had a serious interlude, “before the wedding, you say?”  


**Author's Note:**

>  **Disclaimer:** All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended. The artwork this story is inspired by belongs to Raitala.
> 
> Comments are very welcome. You may leave them here or over at [Livejournal](http://hd-remix.livejournal.com/78066.html).


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